‘Yeah, right.’ She drained her own mug – her second, at that point; she remembered wondering how many he’d had – and Ralph immediately topped her up.

‘Do you know what he said to me? He said, “I’m just not attracted to you enough.”’ She gave a hollow laugh. When she thought about it, though, she had already forgotten what Gary’s face looked like.

‘Then he tried to make it better by saying “It’s not that I don’t fancy you at all, because I kind of do. Just not enough. I’m sorry.”’

‘What a bastard.’ Ralph’s words were slurring a lot more than Meredith’s.

It had stung a bit, if she was honest, that particular rejection. Perhaps it was because she had felt that Gary and she actually did have the chance at a connection. Once or twice, in more optimistic moments, she had let herself think that he might even be ‘the one’. He’d seemed OK – kind, funny, solvent, age-appropriate, sensible, liberal. Nice house, cute dog, matching socks. Four dates, lots of laughs and kisses that started off enthusiastically but – and she hadn’t noticed it at the time – lost commitment as time went on, like a hurricane that gradually blows itself out. Then, finally, his sad words of realisation.

‘He’s not a bastard. That was the problem,’ she said. ‘I’m obviously a terrible kisser. Or I’m just too old and ugly.’

Ralph had laughed, thinking she was joking. ‘Obviously!’ he chuckled drunkenly. ‘I mean, look at you!’

‘I’m serious, Ralph.’ Unexpectedly, she got the tingling in her nostrils that preceded tears and inwardly berated herself. It was almost certainly Jack Daniels-induced. She really didn’t give a shit about Gary, only what he had briefly represented: the chance of a partner, someone to cuddle up on the sofa with, plan holidays with.

Always look at what you have, she reminded herself, not what you’re missing. Although that was more difficult after three mugs of whisky.

Two decades ago, when her band won a BRIT Award for their third million-selling single, she’d have been as horrified as Iain had sounded in that phone call last year to know that this was where she would end up. And now she had talked herself into teariness over a rejection, after four dates, by a guy in his fifties who wore bicycle clips and played bridge.

But she knew that Gary wasn’t the real reason for her distress.

‘You aren’t remotely ugly,’ Ralph finally said, about two minutes past appropriate.

‘I mean, I think I’ve lost my looks since I was younger, but I’d never have said I was ugly.’ Meredith forgot that Gary actually hadn’t ever used that word. ‘My eyes are too close together, I’m too old and I have too many crow’s feet, but really?’